


drag our teeth across your chest (to taste your beating heart)

by brightlyburning



Series: Feral Forest Fuck God Dimitri [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftercare, Cockwarming, Dacryphilia, Femdom, Fisting, Knotting, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Monsters, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Objectification, Overstimulation, Prostate Milking, Sacrifice, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlyburning/pseuds/brightlyburning
Summary: Byleth steps between his spread knees without so much as a by-your-leave, her warm hands slipping beneath the collar of his robe to push it down his arms. Even the faint press of her palms has Sylvain shivering, nerves still oversensitive. "You were..." she helps Sylvain shift onto one hip, then the other, to work the robe off him, "receptive. Willing."She doesn't even glance at Sylvain's spent cock, lying against his thigh, but instead looks deep into his eyes. Her gaze is strange and powerful, and it takes all Sylvain has not to cringe away."Dimitri wants to see you tended to, worshiped, before you leave us. Given only pleasure, in thanks for your sacrifice. If you accept," she offers a blindfold, "take this."(A very late entry for FE3H Monsterfucking Week for the prompt 'aftercare.')
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth, Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Series: Feral Forest Fuck God Dimitri [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014639
Comments: 10
Kudos: 128
Collections: FE3H Monsterfucking Weekend 2020, Horny Void





	drag our teeth across your chest (to taste your beating heart)

Sylvain had done his best to limp from the clearing under his own power, but the deep ache in his hips and thighs and the tremble in his legs killed that idea swiftly. Instead, Byleth, for all she stands a full head shorter than him, darted in to catch him before he could fall.

Now she's carrying him, and he's not small. Still, he's no strain to her, her breathing even, her arms strong where they cradle his curled form against the soft warmth of her breasts, and were this any other day, Sylvain would be helplessly aroused by her efficient strength, the curious quirk of her lush mouth.

Instead he keeps his gaze on the forest around them and runs his mouth to escape the awkward silence.

"So, uh, his name's Dimitri? Seems a bit too human for a god."

Byleth shrugs. Her sandaled feet bear them swiftly between the great pines and cypresses, and the morning sun falls in shafts of glimmering light before them, as holy as any cathedral. "He has other names. Some he has forgotten, some he will not reveal. To me, he has always been Dimitri."

Sylvain swallows down the grunt of pain as she climbs down a small rise towards a creek at the bottom, then tries to mask it with,

"What's next?" Goddess, he hopes they'll give him some time to rest before he has to get back on a horse; he could do it, would do it for Gautier, but it'd be a horrible journey.

Her solemn pale gaze flicks to his face. "I saw how he took you. He was rough, though not-" she hesitates, and Sylvain can hardly bear to look at her, all too aware that apparently she saw him mounted and fucked by her god, wailing for it, "-not unkind."

"You were _there_?"

Byleth's lips twist in something Sylvain would like to think is embarrassment. "Dimitri asks it of me. It is..." she crosses the stream, ascends the rise without even a huff for breath, "important to him that someone witness his acts. That someone understands his judgments."

"And what happens when he's not kind?" Sylvain can barely lift a finger, too exhausted to move; what does Dimitri do when he's cruel?

Byleth raises her brows at him like he's a fool. "For those who offer themselves out of pride or selfishness, those of the church who would threaten us-" her voice is even, factual, "-his forest has sharp teeth and endless hunger." Then, a bare hint of softness, "But you were here for your people, and that was worth his kindness."

They emerge from the dappled shadows of the trees into a clearing. At the center, tucked by a great outcropping of rocks, sits a small bathhouse, its chimney steaming, the air perfumed with pine and cypress. A pile of logs rests beside the entrance, and beside them, a man.

The priest, Jeralt, drops his logs on the pile when he sees them. His jaw clenches, brow furrowing. He looks them up and down with stern eyes, his gaze lingering on the many marks Dimitri left on Sylvain, before he stalks towards them, his attention thankfully fixed on Byleth.

"What's this? I thought _you_ would want a bath. _He's_ supposed to be returned to his men." The man sounds like he's expecting Sylvain to be a threat, when he's kitten-weak and tired, has never been less a threat in his life.

Byleth's fingers curl, biting into Sylvain's knees, his shoulder, yet her voice is implacable. "Dimitri asked for me to tend him."

Jeralt's gaze lingers where her hands curl about Sylvain. "Ah," is all he says, no surprise in him at all, and what does that mean, 'ah?' Is this unusual, is this normal-

"Well, if he says so. Talks to you more than he ever did to me." Jeralt jerks his head at the bathhouse. "Stove's stocked. Food's ready. Let me know if you need anything else." He turns on his heel and strides away, and Sylvain releases a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding.

Byleth, ignoring all the unspoken questions in the air, bears him towards the bathhouse.

The room Byleth takes Sylvain into is small, paneled in warm wood, with a wide bench near one wall, a stack of towels, and a bucket of water placed at the end of the bench. Beyond this room, there's a larger one, stone this time, and a hot spring bubbling in the floor. That doesn't make sense; all Sylvain's ever read about geology said hot springs appeared near mountains, but, well, this is the realm of a god.

"Nice," says Sylvain. "Guess this acolyte thing has some benefits."

Byleth lowers Sylvain onto the bench, careful of his bruises and aching hips. "Dimitri can be giving," she murmurs, before she picks up a towel and spreads it across the bench. She then steps back and looks Sylvain, worn and marked as he is, up and down, her brow furrowing.

"Your father didn't seem too happy about me coming in here." Sylvain tries for offhanded and fails miserably, if the faint twitch at Byleth's mouth is any guide.

"No one but us has before." Byleth steps between his spread knees without so much as a by-your-leave, her warm hands slipping beneath the collar of his robe to push it down his arms. Even the faint press of her palms has Sylvain shivering, nerves still oversensitive. "But you were..." she helps Sylvain shift onto one hip, then the other, to work the robe off him, "receptive. Willing."

She doesn't even glance at Sylvain's spent cock, lying against his thigh, but instead looks deep into his eyes. Her gaze is strange and powerful, and it takes all Sylvain has not to cringe away.

"Dimitri wants to see you tended to, worshiped, before you leave us. Given only pleasure, in thanks for your sacrifice. If you accept," she offers a blindfold, "take this."

Sylvain considers the blindfold draped across her palm. It's thin white cloth, loosely woven, doesn't seem like it'd block much out, and when he cocks his brow at Byleth, she answers readily.

"Dimitri belongs to the wild, to darkness. He isn't meant to be seen in daylight, or in human habitations, by the uninitiated. The blindfold will protect you from his power."

Old gods do seem to play by their own rules. 

"Is it the principle of the thing?" Sylvain asks, reaching out to touch the blindfold. It's soft beneath his finger, seems utterly normal. 

Byleth cocks her head at him, the ghost of a smile at her mouth. "Curious, aren't you?" But before he can yank his hand back or apologize, she goes on, "I appreciate you asking. Others normally want to know nothing."

Sylvain shrugs. "I like to learn."

"So I see." Byleth considers him anew, her gaze dropping to where Dimitri's claws left pink and red lines crossing the juts of his collarbones, pricked in lines up the side of his neck. "Your answer?"

The idea of further pleasure, of being, well, doted upon, coils warm and heavy in Sylvain's belly in a way he's not sure he wants to question. He does still feel a little raw, a bit unsettled in his own skin, as if Dimitri rearranged him in some way he's not sure he can fix alone. Being touched, caressed and stroked by someone, or two someones, seems it might settle him.

He takes the blindfold from her hand, lifts sore arms to tie it about his head. It doesn't blind him entirely, or much at all, really: mostly blurs the world, reduces it to shadow and haze. 

Before him, Byleth, face now an oval of light and faint shadow, nods. "Good." She curls her arm, corded with muscle, about Sylvain's shoulders, helps him lie down on the bench, a thick towel beneath him to cushion the worst of the bruises. 

She turns away, and her footsteps become softer as she crosses to the door.

A shadow fills the door, lit again by one burning blue eye, and Sylvain shifts on the bench, hitches a breath as Dimitri lowers his head, steps within. His crown of antlers nearly scrapes the ceiling. His broad shoulders, wrapped in what must be his fur mantle, seem to fill the space with his strength, the terrible predatory power of him. 

His mere presence makes Sylvain's skin prickle with awareness: the old god is here, the old god _wants_ him, and his body, as if stirred to waking, suddenly remembers. His cock, lying quiescent against his thigh, aches.

"You left him dripping with you," Byleth says, and her shadow through the blindfold lifts a hand. No doubt the one she'd slipped into Sylvain's hole, feeling out where the god's come had settled within him.

The great horned head bows, one hand lifting to circle Byleth's wrist, draw her hand to Dimitri's mouth, and Sylvain can't stop the sudden indrawn breath at the sound of Dimitri suckling at Byleth's fingers. Is his tongue still as hot and rough as it had been on his neck? His teeth as sharp? Does his blue gaze still hunger?

With a low hum Sylvain feels in his bones, Dimitri pulls off Byleth's fingers. A long strand of saliva connects his lips to her skin, breaking when he says, voice more growl than not,

"I taste you on your skin, too. Did you fuck yourself with your fingers, watching me take him? Hearing him wail for it?"

Byleth sucks in a breath, but her reply is steady. "You are beautiful. So is he."

Dimitri's gaze swings to Sylvain for a moment, and through the thin cloth of the blindfold, a toothed grin gleams. "He is. What shall we do with him, do you think?"

There's something freeing in lying here on the bench, blindfolded, nude, his Crest no importance, listening to them talk about him like he's an afterthought, something they'll tend to in their own time.

Byleth considers. "If you are amenable, my lord, perhaps... he wanted to taste your cock last night. Might he warm your cock while I take him with my fingers? I'd like to feel him come, and he's certainly pliant enough."

Sylvain moans humiliatingly loudly, his hips hitching against the towel beneath him. Their attention settles on him like a brand, hot on his skin.

"Would you like that?" Byleth says, and there's a smile in her voice.

Sylvain breathes a yes, tries not to squirm against the bench too obviously, but Dimitri's low laugh makes him flush, still. 

"Good," Byleth says, and her shadow disappears into the next room, while Dimitri's grows larger, the outline more crisp. The bench trembles as the chair Byleth's dragging knocks into one of the legs, but Sylvain pays it no mind: hard to care, when he has Dimitri standing so close. The scent of him, wild and strange, fills Sylvain's senses, and he shudders as a massive clawed hand settles into his hair, cups the back of his skull like it's fragile as eggshell.

"His marks are beautiful," Byleth says, as if discussing a weapon, or a piece of furniture. Air stirs at Sylvain's side as she drops into the chair. Her cool hand settles across one of Sylvain's cheeks, thumb curling into a bruise. The warm steady ache spreads beneath Sylvain's skin from the callused pad of her thumb, has him shivering, and then Dimitri murmurs, low and pleased,

"He's even lovelier opened." His hand tightens in Sylvain's hair, holds him steady on the bench as Byleth's fingers cup him and spread him, and her gasp- shocked or greedy or lustful, Sylvain can't tell- and the sudden lick of warm air where he's still aching has his hips jolting helplessly against the rough towel, his pinned cock sensitive with overuse. They're looking at him: his vulnerable places, the soft pale insides of his thighs sticky with dried oil, the bruises and scratches, all a testament to how he's been taken, been sacrificed, been _fucked_ , and there's no disgust in their voices, in the faint shadows of their bodies.

Only desire, and there's something so- so delicious, decadent, about just being allowed to lie here, to take all their desire, and not be expected to... to talk, or think, or plan how to get what he wants. He can just be a vessel for them, instead of a studhorse to be seduced or a noble to be feared. He can be a cherished plaything, and-

Goddess, how will he _survive_ , having known this and never having it again? 

"Oh, Sylvain," Byleth breathes, and her thumb runs across the bruises, the skin abraded with too much touch, and both she and Dimitri make matching sinful sounds when Sylvain gasps,

"Please, _please_ -"

"Sweet boy," Byleth murmurs, and her thumb settles just on the edge of his rim, where he feels- feels swollen, almost, tender and needy. He tenses, just catching at the edge of her finger, and the sound she makes has him trying to hitch back into her, stopped by the brute strength of Dimitri's grasp.

"You look," Byleth pets the tip of her finger over him, his flinching rim, the softness of him, and her voice is awed, "used." She presses just the tip of her finger where he's yielding, where his body opens like it's all it knows how to do, and oh, Dimitri's come - still slick, how? - wells warm out of him. "Pliant, just as you said, Dimitri."

"Giving, isn't he?" the god says, and through the thin blindfold his smile is possessive, pleased. His free hand thumbs at Sylvain's mouth, and it's instinctual to draw him in, to suckle at his thick finger. He's careful, good, makes sure to keep his teeth covered, to lavish care on what Dimitri allows him, and the weight of it, being filled, has his eyelids suddenly heavy.

The taste of Dimitri's skin is indescribable, but the rumble Dimitri makes has Sylvain shivering, clenching on Byleth's knuckle so she laughs. Dimitri's thumb is rough, callused, and he presses at Sylvain's tongue to still it, curls his massive palm about Sylvain's jaw so he's held, pinned between them, mouth open. Saliva wells in his mouth, and he can't swallow it, can only whimper.

Dimitri's gaze burns even through the blindfold as he bends closer. His clawed thumb prickles at the soft surface of Sylvain's tongue, and yet- yet he feels safe.

"Would you like me to fill your mouth, dear one?"

The god's grip loosens enough for Sylvain to nod, but then he hitches a breath when Byleth pulls her fingertip free, his sore rim still trying to keep her in.

"Here," Byleth says, and with gentle efficiency she turns Sylvain on his back on the bench, the towel soft against his marks and bruises, and then takes her own seat on the bench, draping his thighs over hers. When Sylvain groans, muscles protesting the stretch, she reaches forward to press her cool hand against one hip. The pressure has his cock stirring, a few drops of precome dampening the curls beneath it. "Too sore?"

"I could heal you," Dimitri says. He pulls Byleth's vacant chair to sit by Sylvain's head, and a part of Sylvain wants to snicker in mortifying idea at the sight of a god - an _old_ god, a god of beasts and branches and hunger - sitting in a chair. A battered and used one, one leg a bit loose beneath Dimitri's weight-

But, well. He is well-loved himself, and the stretch and burn is testament to that. "No, thank you," he manages, and feels himself flush to the roots of his hair when Byleth and Dimitri lock greedy gazes above the line of his body. Then Dimitri's hand curls back into his hair and turns Sylvain's gaze towards his cock once more: thick and stiff and real, the foreskin rolled back to expose the flushed head, a clear bead of precome welling in the teardrop-shaped slit. 

Sylvain's mouth waters, and he makes a helpless wanton sound that would probably have his father enraged-

But no. His father isn't here, can never be here, and there's only Dimitri, with his vicious gentle hands, and Byleth, her tenderness hidden with cool efficiency. He can have this, can be the center of their attention for being just who he is, Crest or no Crest.

Byleth's hand drops from the inside of Sylvain's lewdly open thighs, slips beneath him to where he's still- still open and wet, and her slim strong finger presses up and into him, his rim clutching hungrily at her knuckle, and the pressure startles out a shuddering moan.

"Oh, our pet's needy," Dimitri says, and his voice has a wicked resonant edge to it that makes Sylvain tremble, open his mouth in silent request. "Beautiful," Dimitri breathes, and his cock just nudges at Sylvain's lips, his grip in Sylvain's hair tightening to keep him from trying to suckle. "Let us take you," he says, "let yourself go," and then he eases Sylvain's head forward, and _oh_.

Sylvain doesn't have a lot of experience sucking cock - he's done it once or twice - but instinctively he tries to draw it deeper, to push forward over the hard length filling his mouth, precome spilling against the back of his tongue. What's the point of it otherwise, if not to bring the other person pleasure, tip them over into orgasm and know he's done well?

Dimitri's claws prick again at the back of his head, the warm weight of his hand growing heavier. "No need, dear one. Just-" and his voice rumbles, low and heated, like a caress against Sylvain's skin, "-keep me in you. Let me have you, warm and soft and wet."

Sylvain closes his eyes, tries to listen, to be good. Lets his tongue go slack, his saliva pool in his mouth. He must make some sort of sound, a whimper or a whine, for Dimitri's fingers curl in his hair, the pad of his thumb stroking along the line of the blindfold, and he murmurs, 

"Look at him. So pliant. So lovely, letting himself be still for us."

Something, the praise, the warmth of the room, being filled at both ends, settles Sylvain into another space. Somewhere he hasn't gone before, where his mind, with all its whirling restless thoughts, the constant worry about Sreng and Miklan and the burden of power, quiets. Goes still, leaves his mind peaceful, yet his body awake, dreaming yet not quite. His eyelids rest heavy on his cheeks. Vague thoughts slip across his mind, flutter away into spun-cotton clouds, and he slackens against the bench, the faint scratch of the towel at his back.

"Oh," Byleth says, low and awed, but Sylvain doesn't pay much attention, listening mostly to his own long, slow breaths. It's like he's finished a long day of training, or had an orgasm already, his body heavy and relaxed and drifting on the edge of sleep. His cock aches a bit where it lies along the line of his hip, but somehow it doesn't seem that important, not when the world is so warm and still, when his skin hums with touch.

Sylvain shifts, hitches a breath of confused pleasure, when Byleth pulls her finger free, then returns with two, dripping with oil. It's not too much of a stretch, more just a slow roll of syrupy sweet warmth from his hole that spreads up and out to the ends of his fingers and toes. Her fingers crook, pet gently at him until he squirms, and then-

"Touch his pretty little prick," Dimitri murmurs from above him, all possessive warmth. The hand stroking Sylvain's cheekbone drops, presses a finger into Sylvain's mouth beside his cock, and he laughs, low and rich, when Sylvain mouths at it, too. "He deserves a reward, our devoted boy."

The hopeful noise he makes has them laughing, but it trails away into a trembling husk of a moan when Byleth's hand curls about his cock - he's not pretty, or little, but somehow here it's good, it's okay, he wants to be cherished like this - and she rubs her thumb beneath the crown of his cock. Even through the blindfold her hand is pale and slim and strong over the ruddy length of him, and the oil pools in the quivering hollow of his belly, slips down over his balls.

Everything is slick and warm and easy, and he drifts on the ceaseless wave of pleasure, of being good, as Byleth strokes him with slow steady milking passes of her fist over where he's aching-

He arches into the pressure of her hand and gasps, Dimitri's cock falling from his mouth. The rising wave of pressure crests and breaks, and he shudders through a climax, warmth spilling over Byleth's knuckles, over him. He can't even make a sound, only open-mouthed cracked breaths, and whimpers with mingled loss and relief when Byleth finally stops.

The bench shakes again as Dimitri sits behind him, pulls his limp and trembling form onto his lap like he weighs nothing, Sylvain's shoulders propped against his thighs. His cock, blood-warm, slips over Sylvain's cheek, glosses his open lips, and he shifts, growls, when Sylvain mouths at it, senseless, wanting to show how good they're making him feel, how...

"Beautiful," Byleth says, and her fingertip lingers over the head of Sylvain's cock, collecting the last drops of come, and then she- she leans forward, and slides her fingers across Dimitri's mouth.

Sylvain shivers with the sudden pulse of delight, makes a wanton lost little sound, but they don't look at him, only each other. Through the blindfold, Dimitri's tongue - wicked and pink and too long - slips out to curl about Byleth's fingers, draw them in. A growl reverberates in his chest, and his hand, where it cups the front of Sylvain's throat, trembles.

"He can take more," Dimitri says, certain as the tides, as the world turning. "Give him your hand."

Byleth's grin is a white slash of teeth. Her voice rasps across Sylvain's skin. "You didn't play with his nipples at all last night. Quite a waste, not to touch his tits."

Sylvain stirs at that - that word, the crudity of it - then settles on a sigh as Dimitri's cock presses back into his mouth, heavy and hot. The smell of Dimitri - something other, something wild and musky and utterly inhuman - fills his senses. Dimitri's other hand slips down to span the breadth of his chest, and a distant part of Sylvain aches with how big his hand is, how deadly-

He arches into the pressure, gets nowhere, as Byleth's other hand works him open, thorough and methodical and efficient. His knees press against her waist, and with her free hand she strokes his thigh, as if gentling him, steadying him-

More fingers - four fingers - press at his hole, stretch him where he's slick and sensitive and trembling, empty. His toes curl, and he gasps around his mouthful, clenching instinctively, but Byleth is insistent, dedicated. Her thumb pets where he's spread wide, her hand twists, retreats, presses forward again-

Dimitri's claws circle at his nipples, pluck them until they draw tight and aching, and his voice, low and hungry, murmurs, "Let us in, Sylvain. Our lovely boy. Our supplicant."

It’s easy, and not at all, the ceaseless pressure of her fingers, her knuckles sinking past him, back out, while Dimitri’s hands fondle and press and play with his nipples, rolling them between clawed fingers, draw lines of burning sensation over his chest. Sylvain’s moaning, ceaseless, unable to even feel humiliated, held and pinned and dissolving into light, into the glow of his body.

More motion. Byleth’s fingers dip into him, back out, where he’s soft and yielding and messy. He arches into it, the pressure, and his cock stirs again, droplets hitting his belly. 

They’re talking, he realizes dimly, words filtering in through the clouds. Saying he’s good, lovely. That all of him, from his pretty mouth to his sweet hole, belongs to them, to be used, and he likes that, murmurs inarticulate want. Through the blindfold, Byleth’s got… four fingers, sliding in and out of him, slick, easy, where he’s gone loose for them.

“He’s ready,” Dimitri says, and his hand strokes through Sylvain’s hair, cups the back of his head to lift him, so he can see-

Byleth repositions, and pushes, thumb tucked, fingers gathered, and Sylvain gives. Her hand disappears, sliding into him, curling into a fist. Stretching him wide.

Tears wet the blindfold, streak down his cheeks, but they’re not tears of pain. He can’t feel any pain, here in this far-off floating place where his bones are honey and everything burns with desire. Capitulation, surrender, utter relief. He’s full with them, utterly given to them, cherished and adored even as they work wave upon wave of pleasure from him.

Byleth looks up from where her hand’s sunk into him, where he’s closed about her wrist. Her wide eyes shine dark, moonless night without stars, and the smile she favors him with is both tender and hungry. 

Sylvain shivers, quakes with it, the knowledge, being used, and only the steady bars of Dimitri’s thighs, the brute palm cupped lightly about his throat, keep him from sliding off the bench entirely. His body craves, even now, and Dimitri noses behind his ear, teeth at the hinge of his jaw.

“Hold him fast,” Byleth says, and Dimitri does. Her hand moves. Fucks him, deep and slow, quickening, thrusting, all of Sylvain willingly surrendered, given over to their conquering. Their possession. 

Sylvain trembles, writhes, caught between them - he needs to come, aches with it, every pulse of her fist over his prostate pushing more pleasure out of him in tiny cries and breathless keens, his hips rocking down against her, chasing even more. Time is infinite, an ecstasy that expands and builds and-

It’s too good, too much. He wails. Lights burst across his vision. The movement, the pleasure, it’s unending and he’s mindless with it, gone with it, his body a vessel, shaking itself apart to contain it.

Dimitri’s voice, a bare whisper, makes it past the tide. “Come. Come for us, on her hand.”

Sylvain obeys without a thought, without even a breath, his body arching into it. The climax takes him, pulls him under, wave after wave rolling through him, spilling from him. 

Byleth’s knuckles press against his prostate, drag deep, grinding, milking-

He’s coming, endlessly, jerking and thrashing against Dimitri’s grip, around Byleth’s hand, sobbing, shaking, moaning with each new spurt from his cock, each agonizing billow of pleasure and heat from her hand in him, his body stretched and trembling about her wrist. He’s drowning in it, can’t catch his breath-

He slips somewhere peaceful, dark.

He comes back to Dimitri’s fingers at his lips, suckles at them mindlessly, wanting something to fill him, and behind him Dimitri shifts, presses too-hot lips to his shoulder. Byleth’s in front of him still, but they’re - on the floor? On the floor on their sides, on more towels, and Byleth, seeing Sylvain’s eyes through the blindfold, props herself up on one elbow.

She’s naked, luminous and glorious, her heavy breasts swinging low, nipples pale pink, and oh- her other hand is between her lush thighs, fingers working, palm resting on the wet curls of her pubic hair. Come paints her tits, her belly- Sylvain’s come.

“Beautiful boy,” she says, quiet, adoring, and Sylvain trembles, can hardly think of words. His mind’s gone blank, his body radiant, feeling so much- his skin, his cock, his hole, still empty, a bit loose, wet with oil, and oh-

Dimitri’s cock nudges between his thighs, the crown still slick with Sylvain’s own spit, and his breath stirs at the back of Sylvain’s neck, his teeth prickling at the skin. His other arm, heavy as iron, loops about Sylvain’s waist, holds him still, holds him steady, as the god’s hips roll against him, into him-

He sounds beastly, his noises more growl than words, and his balls thud heavily against Sylvain’s, aching and sore, and his teeth threaten, and Sylvain is open and wet and used and he likes it.

“Shhh,” Byleth says, moving closer. She slots herself among them as easy as breathing: picks up Sylvain’s top leg, drapes it over the soft giving curve of her hip, and as he trembles, she drops her hand from her cunt, wet with herself, and curls about his cock where he’s aching and tender, holds him even as he whines about Dimitri’s fingers, unsure.

“We want to give you one more,” she says, low, and behind him Dimitri moans into his ear. His hand tightens. His cock drips precome on the inside of Sylvain’s thigh. “Will you let us? Will you let us have you, one more time?” 

Sylvain manages to shape the word ‘both?’ around Dimitri’s fingers in his mouth, and at that Dimitri drops his hand from Sylvain’s face, grunts, his thrusts slowing, grinding, as if Sylvain is- again, a beast to be mounted. To be taken.

“If you accept,” Byleth says, and her hand tightens about where he’s soft, tender, spent. “If you will let us. I know Dimitri would like to, and I would like to feel you within me.” Her finger circles just beneath the head of his cock. Her breasts press warm and soft against Sylvain’s chest, his hard nipples.

It would be easy for Dimitri, he’s so wet, yielding - he could slip right in, take Sylvain, every thrust pushing him into Byleth - the idea of it burns up his spine, and he finds himself whispering assent.

Her smile grows. Dimitri’s hips still. Then, in a burst of motion that seems to take forever and no time at all, they move Sylvain’s lax limbs, turn him like a doll, until Byleth is on her back, knees up, and her arms reach up to enfold Sylvain, bring him down to her.

His cock, half-hard, slips into her where she’s hot, tight, and it’s like orgasm, like endless drifting pleasure, as she sighs, shifts her hips up to take him deeper. His head falls to her chest, and she strokes her hands through his hair, guides him to suck at her nipple, hard and hot against his tongue. He obeys, reverent, sated, his body heavy, his eyes closed: a vessel, for their pleasure and his own, brimming with it. Every nerve sings with joy. He doesn’t thrust, doesn’t need to - she embraces him within her, rolls her hips in slow motions to grind her clit against him, her cunt fluttering about him, coaxing him to one last trembling peak of arousal. 

Behind him, Dimitri gets into position, hunched over them both. His claws dig great gouges into the wooden floor beside Byleth’s spread hair. His cock rubs at Sylvain where he’s empty and then, with a long, low moan that reverberates through Sylvain’s body, sinks into him. 

The room fills with the sounds of their bodies - wet, slippery, silken. Sylvain lets go of Byleth’s breast, lays his head on her chest, breathes out cracked little gasps as Dimitri works his way deeper into him. He’s sore, and sensitive, and still needy, every careful push of Dimitri’s body rocking him into Byleth, sparking friction on his cock.

She kisses his cheek where it’s wet with overstimulated tears, holds him close. “So giving,” she says, “you feel so good inside me,” and she clenches about him, where he aches, where he-

Every thrust, every rock of their bodies, is like climaxing again, an endless reverberation and repetition of heavy slow tidal pleasure washing through him, through them. He’s trembling and sobbing and utterly surrendered to it, to them, and Dimitri’s hips roll and thrust and drag over his sore tender prostate, and he thinks he cries out, weak and helpless with surprise and need. He can’t tighten much, as plundered as he is, but Dimitri growls, takes him slowly, steadily. Works at him, into him, the pressure and the friction and the knowledge of it, of being wanted this fiercely, wells and billows and-

Dimitri’s chanting something, panting out words in a language he doesn’t know, and Byleth hitches a surprised breath, her hands going tight in Sylvain’s hair. Her hips thrust up, body locking tight, and Dimitri presses somehow further in, his knot swelling, grinding where Sylvain’s plundered, speared, and then he snaps his teeth into Sylvain’s shoulder and comes. 

He spills, warm, a heated rush inside Sylvain’s body, making him even wetter, slicker, and somehow Sylvain responds, comes, his body obeying the unspoken command without thought. He twitches through an aftershock, a confused little peak of starlit pleasure that he surrenders to with a sob, his cock spurting a few last drops inside Byleth as Byleth clenches, shudders, gasps out a surprised little, “Oh-”

Again, he slips away.

* * *

Another slow rising to the surface, to consciousness. He’s warm. He’s comfortable, his head tipped against a warm wall, prickly with something. Water bubbles up around him. Oh. The bathhouse, and the hot spring. 

He aches, but not unduly so: like the end of a long day, or a training session that went well. Exhausted, sore, a little heavy. His throat hurts a bit, his lips chapped, an ache in his back. The wall rumbles beneath him, and he cracks open an eye. Another blindfold, this one fresh, not tacky with his own tears, but even so he can see the shadow of Dimitri peering back at him, the vast crown of his antlers.

“Good, you’re awake,” Dimitri says, fond, and he thumbs at Sylvain’s jaw, tips his head to one side to see Byleth, seated on the other edge of the hot spring and pouring some fragrant oil into the water. Beside her, there’s a tray with glasses of water with chill painting their surfaces and little plates of fruit.

Sylvain must make some noise of want, for Byleth’s smile wrinkles her nose. She brings him a glass and a plate, crossing the hot spring with them both, and a part of Sylvain appreciates the pale curves of her breasts as she comes. 

He tries to lift a hand to take something from her, but she knocks his limbs back down with only a stern glance. He’s more tired than he thought, can barely hold up his head, but it’s all right; Dimitri cradles him close, lifts his chin so he can drink the cool water Byleth places at his lips, holds him steady for the berries she places on his tongue. They burst with flavor and freshness, and slowly Sylvain returns to himself, stops trembling.

He’s content to stay silent, to let them feed him, bathe him, Dimitri lifting fruit to his mouth while Byleth, with the same unnerving intensity she always has, washes his feet, his arms. She even carefully, with aching tenderness, passes a washcloth over his tender cock and rim, whispering praise when he doesn’t flinch from it.

They’re both gentle, now, heartbreakingly so, gratitude in every motion. In the press of Byleth’s lips on Sylvain’s forehead. In the way Dimitri strokes thoughtfully at the insides of his thighs where he’s curled against the god’s body, and murmurs how good he was.

Sylvain closes his eyes, surrounded by their care, and lets himself drift, secure.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence and the Machine's 'Howl.' Comments, kudos, bookmarks, and criticism are adored. I reply to all comments, though it may take me a bit. Check out my various social media and commission info at brightlyburning.carrd.co if you'd like!


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